


Housem8

by Geist



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alcohol, Alternian, BDSM, Bad date, Ball Squeezing, Biting, Blackrom, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Cowgirl Position, Cunnilingus, Deepthroat, Drinking, F/M, FaceFucking, Facial, French, Gaming, Housemates, Kismesissitude, Kissing, Lipstick, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Scratching, Sex, Slapping, Snowballing, Streaming, Troll - Freeform, blowjob, facesitting, handjob, sex fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geist/pseuds/Geist
Summary: Your housemate’s a slovenly, selfish troll who only leaves her room to steal your food and make cutting remarks at you. But hey, she pays the rent on time, and you’ve got a hot date tonight, so you can just forget all about her.
Relationships: Vriska Serket/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Housem8

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are portrayed as 18+

This loser is you.

Wait, no, that's mean, you're doing the best you can. So here's you. Standard issue office drone, poor pay for dull work. Apartment you can afford (just about) with the aid of a roommate. Interested in but not particularly successful with women. Everything else is up to you. Anyway, the love-life part might be changing soon. Tonight, if all goes well.

It's certainly not your fault that your kitchen, in which you currently stand, is an absolute trash heap. You briefly wonder if you should make an effort to clean it up, in case tonight's proceedings go so well that you actually get to bring someone home. You're pretty sure that if you do, though, the orchestrator of the current trash-heapedness would find a way to re-trashheap the place in the few hours you'll be gone. Ah well.

And here comes said trash-heaper right now. Six feet of lanky, scraggle-haired, grey-skinned troll. She's an alien. Alternian, you've heard is the proper name of her species, but troll suits her perfectly. She's rude, abrasive and inconsiderate, but she pays her rent on the dot, and when she's not stealing your food, filling the sink with piles of dirty dishes on leaving empty ramen cups upside down atop the bin (why?) she keeps to herself.

Her name is Vriska Serket. She's a necessary evil.

Oh, and she's French, apparently, whether because it's some weird alien analogue or because she selected it as her human culture of choice you don't know. Whatever, just roll with it.

"'Sup, loser," she says in that dismissive drawl of hers. You can at least appreciate the accent.

That's about the extent of her conversation. She makes a beeline for the fridge, flings open the door and scoops out a box of leftover Chinese. Yours, you might add.

"Ever going to buy your own takeout?" you ask, but without much rancour. That chow mein is a couple of days older than it should be, anyway.

She chopsticks a lump of congealed noodles into her mouth, shrugs, and in between chews mumbles:

"Don' nee' ooh. Goh thees."

"Whatever."

You turn away, whistling, and make an attempt to organise the washing up.

"What are you so happy about?" Vriska asks, swallowing ostentatiously.

"I have a date tonight."

"Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!"

Ugh. Always with that ridiculous drawn out cackle.

"You? A date? Is she blind? 'Cos I have a blind friend - eh, friend-ish. I could set you up, if this goes south. Which it will."

"She's not blind." You think.

"Merde, she must be desperate then. Bon chance, I guess."

"I know you're being a dick, but thank you."

"Don't cry too loud when you get home." With that, she sweeps out of the kitchen, pilfered takeout in tow, and a moment later, you hear her door clonk shut.

You ignore everything she said. You have a feeling this date's going to go really well.

***

Well, that date went really badly. You don't want to dwell on the details. Suffice it to say that sometimes you click with someone on the dating app of your choice and then completely fail to click with them IRL. C'est la vie, Vriska might say, though she'd probably just laugh at you.

It’s dark, and you’re too depressed to turn on the lights. You clunk the front door shut behind you and stumble your way to the kitchen, stepping around the crud Vriska’s left on the floor by instinct. You pull open the fridge, blinking into its chilly glow. There, outlined with a halo of god-rays like a ministering angel, is a six-pack of beer. Silver, shiny, and virginal, untouched by Vriska’s grubby fingers. You reach in and grab it, its coolness a balm. Sweet crappy domestic lager. You’re going to crawl inside each aluminium cylinder and not come out until morning.

Back to your room, door shut, flop back on bed, sigh. Crack open the first tinnie. Pssht, foam. Glugluglug. Why, that went down ever so nicely. Another? Don’t mind if you do.

The second leaves you nicely toasty, though only slightly less untroubled and vaguely nauseous to boot. You can see where this is headed. But you’ve got your fingernails under the ring pull anyway, when a rap on the door stops you from levering it up.

“Yeah?” you say, with just a vague slur in your voice.

“It’s me,” says a gallic accent, and clarifies: “Vriska.”

Well yes. It would be. Unless you had a mystery third flatmate you didn’t know about.

“What do you want?” you ask, trying to convey your extreme weariness. You’re just about prepared to throw away a half decent sub-letter if she pulls her usual bullshit on you.

Her answer surprises you. “Wanna come hang out?”

You bite back your snarky reply. She actually sounds sincere. Company would be good right now. Besides, you’re kind of curious to see the inside of her room. You haven’t clapped eyes on it since she moved in, and you shudder to think what she’s made of it.

“Sure, alright,” you say, and haul yourself off your bed, dangling the remaining beers in their packaging from one finger.

Vriska’s already disappeared back into her room by the time you emerge, though she’s left the door open, and a dim, coloured luminance beckons you in. With some trepidation, you cross the threshold, and wait for your eyes to adjust.

Her quarters are, amazingly, clean and tidy. Bed made, knick knacks in neat rows on neat shelves. The only concession to her usual anarchy is a somewhat overflowing laundry basket, with a bra and a pair of panties scattered at its base. Cute panties, you note. Sexy, even: shiny black, lacy satin. You realise you’ve been staring at them too long and look away quickly, which isn’t suspicious at all.

Vriska’s desk has pride of place, and that’s dominated by three huge monitors. The one in the middle has a sleek webcam clipped to its top, and the whole shebang is connected to a monstrosity of a neon-glowing computer tower, all sharp edges and vaned surfaces that were no doubt advertised as being ultra-tech cooling solutions. It looks as though it should have a brand name like Xenomerch, or Slizer, or something along those lines.

There’s a game paused on one screen, a well-known streaming site open on another, and an expensive-looking headset on her desk. You think you may have figured out the source of her income. No wonder she never actually has to leave the apartment.

Thoughts of bumping her rent evaporate when you step a little closer and see the very modest number of followers in the chat; she’s clearly not some secret mega-streamer. You guess if she was she might leave once in a while to go to conventions and appearances and things. Her delivery probably has a lot to do with it. As you slip into the (old, janky) chair she’s thoughtfully provided next to hers, she puts her headset back on, fires up the webcam and launches in with the immortal line:

“What’s up, you dumb fucks? AG’s back dans la maison, and I’ve brought someone with me. This fucking loser is my roommate, and he just got his nuts handed to him by his date. Can I get an F?

The chat becomes a cascade of capital Fs. You’re not quite drunk enough to weather the salt being rubbed into your wounded pride, and you ready yourself to stand and leave, but not before you snap back “At least my date didn’t run on batteries.”

The chat explodes. Vriska’s followers love it. You imagine that she must have been talking shit about them and everything else for years and years, and to see someone clap back at her must be a revelation. It’s...oddly heartening, in a way.

“Oh, now he’s got jokes!!!!!!!!” Vriska says, and cackles the way she does. “Shoulda used some of them on his date.”

If the denizens of the textbox loved your quip, they love her counterburn even more.

“The only joke here is your skills,” you retort, making a guess about her general level of gaming competence.

“Yeah? I’ll show you my skills!” She unpauses her game, unleashing a cacophony of beeps that sound like a trio of chimps were set loose on a synthesizer. “Ok, shitheads, we’re heading back into Susby 3D, the game where a bunch of têtes de nœud who didn’t know how to design a 2D game fucked up even worse at making a 3D game then stuck 3D on the end just to remind you.”

You have, against your every expectation, a great time. You crack open a beer for Vriska, and she swigs that and the other two while you’re still on your third, saving your liver no end of grief. They seem to have zero outward effect on her, and she keeps up a steady stream of commentary laden with french invectives. You might have guessed that the alcohol was impairing her gaming ability, but even allowing for that and the game’s horribly janky controls, she’s no good. It looks like you assumed right when you insulted her skills. That, plus her acerbic manner, plus, you’re sure, prurient interest (that lingerie around her laundry basket can’t be an accident) seems to be what keeps her small but loyal audience coming back time and again.

And before you know it, three hours have passed, full of you bantering back and forth, being even ruder to one another than usual but somehow never getting on each other’s nerves.

“Alright, ArachnidsGrip out, bitches,” Vriska says, after a spectacular failure to beat a low-poly, blocky-textured boss. “Picking up this piece of shit same time tomorrow.”

She cuts the chat, turns off the webcam, turns to you.

“That was great. You should come on more, it’d like, double my subs if I could bust your balls on the regular.”

“Glad I could help,” you say, and stand. “I guess it was pretty fun.”

She nods, oddly thoughtfully for her, you later realise, but you’re standing and heading for the door before she can say anything else. “Maybe clean up the kitchen and I’ll think about it.”

You head for the door, and you’re turning the handle when she grabs you, spins you around, slams you against the wall. Before you can ask what the fuck, she’s pressing up against you with wiry trollish strength, and her lips have found yours. Her tongue slides into your mouth, hot and inquisitive, darting here and there, and you instinctively respond, the tip of yours meeting hers. She draws back a bit, catches your lip between her fangs. You feel a jolt of pain, and taste blood, then she’s lip-locked with you again, driving far too much tongue into your mouth.

The bite shocks you out of whatever the hell it is you’re feeling, and not making too much of an effort - the non-toothy parts of her kiss still feel really good - you eventually manage to push her off you.

“What the fuck?” you get to ask.

“C’mon, man, you’ve been blackflirting with me all evening. You’re telling me you ain’t into this?”

“Blackflirting?”

“Merde. You know? Blackrom? L’amour noir? Kismesissitude????????”

“Oh. This is some weird troll shit.”

She rolls her eyes. “Score one for Monsieur Cultural Sensitivity over here. You wanna keep going or not????????”

“You’re not even my type!”

“Yeah!!!!!!!! That’s the point.”

You hesitate. You’re not going to lie, it felt incredible having someone close to you, kissing you, their hands on your body, even if it was out of some bizarre hate-attraction. It felt like you weren’t totally alone in this world. You want to feel it again.

“O-” you say, and you haven’t even framed the -kay before Vriska’s back on you, even more aggressive this time, nipping another pinprick hole in your lip with her upper canine. Her hand alights on your crotch and she rubs, which feels amazing against your burgeoning semi, then she squeezes far too hard, which does not. You gasp into her mouth, and you feel her smirk. Bitch. As if you’d let her have it all her way. You grab her taut, skinny arse and, lurching forward, spin her around and slam her against the wall the same way she did with you. Ducking down, you go for her neck, suctioning your lips to a patch of skin and drawing it hard against your teeth before outright biting her. Your pathetic blunt human teeth can’t really do more than bruise, but you hear her shriek then feel her fist close around your balls. Naturally, you relent, doubling over slightly, but through watering eyes you admire the pretty blue ring of tooth marks you’ve left on her throat.

She’s going to pay you back in kind, of course. She’s almost gentle about it, releasing your poor aching testicles, then stroking her way up your pants, dipping into them, into your underwear. Your semi’s a full-on big rig (or so you’d like it described) by now, and Vriska curls her fingers around it, nail scraping across your glans in a way that makes you shiver, your stomach not and a bead of precum leak from your cockslit. She smears that first little dribble over your ultrasensitive flesh, drawing a squeak from your mouth, while she lowers hers to your throat. You have a vision of vicious alien fangs tearing out your jugular, but she’s surgical, sinking them in until your vision flares white and you feel little trickles of hot blood trickling down your neck. Pain explodes in your mind, pleasure shoots up your spine to join it. They make sweet, sweet love in your ganglia and you think, or feel, that you might have an inkling of what Vriska means by blackrom.

She straightens up, grinning, and you see pink on her teeth before she licks it away and kisses you again. There’s that iron taste on her tongue, and there’s her hand roving over your dick. Her hips bump frantically against yours as she squirms against you, all but dry-humping you - only you dare to slide a hand a little further between her legs and you discover, pressing up through her jeans, that it’s not very dry at all. Damp-humping, really. She growls, and abruptly breaks the kiss.

You don’t get a chance to ask what’s wrong now. She drops to her knees. She’s scrabbling at your fly and you don’t feel any particular inclination to stop her as she pops open your fastenings, yanks down your zipper. Your trousers haven’t even fallen around your knees before she’s tugging down your underwear. Your cock catches on your waistband and, in her haste, she bends it painfully downwards before it comes free and bounces back up.

You’re still wincing as she runs her palm down its underside, holding it like she’s weighing it.

“Huh,” she says.

“What?”

“Ain’t exactly huge, is it.”

“Oh, and you’ve seen bigger?”

“I might have.”

You scoff. “Yeah? HD, were they?”

Another quick squeeze of your balls shuts you up, and a second, less punitive squeeze of your cock shuts you even further up. Vriska must have found something she likes about it other than its size. She curls proprietorial fingers around it, both eyes and all eight pupils focussed on its tip. Her thumb takes over in stroking the base of it, gliding up and down your frenulum, pushing into the softness there. She catches her thumbnail on the ridge of your glans, its blue-polished surface skidding over your flesh, rocking from one side to the other, teasing until a bead of pre leaks from your slit.

You've heard that high-blooded trolls run colder than humans, but Vriska's breath as she leans in is comparatively warm. She begins to jerk you: slow, smooth strokes, and you see her smirk when you let out an involuntary groan. A moment later, another blob of pre swells at the tip of your dick and you hear a quiet, longing growl in the back of her throat. You smirk yourself, though you turn your face away so she doesn't see.

She's wanking you faster now, your precum breaking its surface tension, dribbling down your cockhead, onto her fingers, so that the wetness makes a squishy slick sound as she pistons her hand. You dig your shoulder blades into the wall, try to avoid thrusting your hips, your breath growing tight in your chest before you remember to exhale. Keep it together, don't let your excitement get the better of you, and if you do cum prematurely, definitely don't do it in her face. Your willpower holds out better than you thought it would, at least until she tosses her head forward and takes you between her lips.

Her mouth is cooler than your skin, though only slightly, and her tongue's rolling over your head in an instant, slurping up the drips of your pre that she was so clearly interested in. Another heroic effort of will, and you manage to not embarrass yourself, but your legs are trembling as she slides her lips up your shaft, keeping them pursed tight until she’s got about half of you in her mouth, your tip hovering right at the back. You feel her swallow, and she folds her lips inwards, sucking hard. You try not to imagine the teeth behind them, poised like serrated guillotines around your flesh.

When she pulls away, there's a ring of cobalt lipstick marking where she was: a tidemark, a high-score. She draws back, suckles your tip, dives down again, sets up a head-bobbing routine that smears her lip-marks down your length. Her lips roll along your cock, her tongue lashes around it, her cheeks are hollowed, and you mewl as that lukewarm, saliva-soaked tightness engulfs, withdraws, engulfs, withdraws. Finally, she's got you rammed right to the very back of her maw, past her tongue, cockhead pressed right up against her hard pallette, and there's only one way to go from there. Pop, and you're in the clutching tightness of her throat, moaning and quivering again. She's swallowing a little too much for someone who's been putting on the air of a pro fellatist, and you see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and a trickle of drool escaping her mouth. She leaves her lip print around your base, though, and pulls back gasping, a tendril of spit connecting your cock to her mouth.

Vriska's back on in an instant, and your dick slides into her gullet far more easily this time. She deepthroats you several times in quick succession, then slows, stops, looks up at you with a frown. Your confusion must show on yours, because she pulls of you completely, and says:

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Reciprocate, idiot. This is blackrom, you're meant to be rough. You want to use me. Fucking - fuck my face!!!!!!!!"

"Uhh, right."

She starts sucking again, slowly, waiting for your cue. Tentatively, you reach out and grip one of her horns, using it to pull her in. She struggles, fighting you, and you have to grab the other one to make any progress. You thrust forward, driving your dick down her throat, and the force you put into it kind of scares you, but she utters a choking, gurgling groan of approval. When she keeps on struggling, you let go of a horn and grab a hank of her hair, yanking her down to the base of your cock to a muffled shriek, a gag, neck muscles rippling hard around your stiff flesh. She drags nails down your thighs and leaves bleeding scratches, and with a shout of pain you throw her back, lift her by the hair and slap her hard enough to leave a faint handprint on her cheek. Her blue eyes flare with delighted anger, and you drive her back onto your cock, gagging her again, throat-fucking her until mascara-laden tears draw black lines down her face. Spit coalesces in frothy bubbles around her lips until at last with a roar, she shoves you back, shakes her head out your grip and takes back control.

Panting, Vriska bends your cock up, flattening it against your pubis, and nips at its underside, plucking at the skin with the tips of her teeth, prickling but not penetrating. She goes for your balls next, taking one whole into her mouth, sucking at it until it's drawn tight and aching against your scrotum. Again the teeth, closing around your sack, and then she snaps them closed with frightening rapidity. Your heart skips a beat, before you realise that she was only feinting, and hasn't in fact bitten off your left nut. She pulls back, letting it slop from her mouth, and the right gets the same treatment, though with a lot more tongue.

Back to your dick, and it's made clear you're expected to take the lead again. You seize her horns, throat her, look down at that irritating fascinating aggravating attractive face and proceed to hammer your hips against it, your well-sucked balls slapping against her pointy chin. You summon up everything you hate about her, from the jibes to the filthy kitchen to the unpaid bills and let it lend strength to your bruising thrusts. Then again, she was here for you tonight, and she's been a familiar presence for who knows how long. You'd miss her if she went. The paradox consumes you, and you go ever harder, driving into her gullet, listening to her gag and choke and screech, losing yourself in her eyes, full of defiance and lust.

"Fucking bitch!" you yell. "You like this?"

"Mmmmmmmm!"

"How about we turn your webcam back on, let your viewers see their favourite e-girl getting facefucked like the whore she is?"

"Rrrrrrrrmgh! Mffftrd!"

Your orgasm hits with minimal warning, and you shoot your first load straight down her throat. Quickly, you jerk back, leaving her to cough it up while you indulge in this detonation of a climax. A rope of your cum adds a pearly white streak to her hair, while the last few spatter across her face, leaving a glob dripping from her nose, while another crosses her mouth and chin, and a thirds adds a bold statement to the mascara stains down her cheek.

"Not bad," she rasps, spitting out more of your seed. She stands like a sprinter rising from the block, and you realise, as she shoves her face against yours, that she's reserved some just for you. You taste your own semen on her tongue as she insinuates it into your mouth. Not as awful as you'd thought, to be honest. You playact disgust, though, putting a hand to her cheek and shoving her away. She's back on you in a second, and this time you lean into it. Grabbing her arse, you sink your fingers in, dragging her against your crotch, your cock already resurgent against the damp spot on her jeans. Her nipples poke your chest, and the way the fabric of her shirt hangs over them makes it clear she's not wearing a bra. As if she needed one.

Vriska steps back, still clinging to you, biting your tongue so you have no choice but to move with her. You totter forward, trousers wrapped around your ankles, and manage to kick them off, along with your underpants, before she pulls you a little further. This time she curls her thumb and forefinger round your balls, using them as a secondary leash. You realise she's leading you towards her bed, and since you're in general accordance with that idea, but don't want her to have things all her own way, you reach up, pinch one of her nipples and squeeze until she shrieks, twisting away from the pain. The two of you stumble another few paces, pushing and pinching one another, still locked together at the mouth. Her nails dig into your cock and you retaliate, delving into her sopping panties and hooking your fingers into her cunt. Her eyes shoot wide open, staring directly into your over maybe a couple centimetres, and the intensity of that gaze is unnerving. She makes no move to stop you, and so you keep your fingers buried in her snatch as you twirl across the floor in some deranged waltz.

The backs of your knees hit the bed, and you go sprawling across it. Vriska takes immediate advantage, leaping up and straddling your stomach. She stretches, hauls off her t-shirt, and you admire - pretending not to - her skinny frame. That lithe, toned stomach, the breasts that are, if you're extremely generous and keep your hands held flat, a handful each, tipped with little blue sapphires of nipples. She's cute. Can't deny it.

"Jesus, you really are flat," is what you actually say.

"Ouais?" she snarls. She reaches down, grabs your shirt and tears it off your with a twitch of her arm. The fabric comes off you in shreds: a reminder of just how strong she is when she wants to be.

"Hey! That was my best fucking shirt, you psycho!"

"That was your best? Merde, no wonder your date sucked. And I might be...petite, but at least I keep myself in shape, you flabby fucking loser."

With each insult her breath quickens, the wet spot on her crotch widens. Her flies are unzipped, exposing a black V of cobweb lace underneath. She stands, plants a foot on your chest to keep you down, and wriggles out of her jeans, baring legs as skinny as the rest of her. Panties next, and she plucks them off her ankle and throws them in your face, filling your nostrils with her scent. You leave them where they are for a second longer than you probably should before flinging them away in mock disgust.

She and you are naked, now, theoretically as vulnerable to each other as you've ever been, though you'd wager you feel a lot more vulnerable than she does. She lowers herself predatorily, like a spider descending on a thread, kneeling over your crotch and falling forward to plant her hands on your chest. She curls them like claws, and inflicts upon you eight long, livid scratches, beading here and there with drops of blood. You whimper and hiss through your teeth at the pain, but Vriska provides you with a distraction, pressing her cunt to your cock and grinding herself along it. She spreads wetness and warmth along your shaft, and your whine becomes a moan. Looking down yourself, through her splayed arms, between her legs, you watch her soft folds smearing her juices over your dick, deforming around it, her blueberry clit poking cheekily from beneath its hood with every forward twitch of her hips.

She finishes raking your torso around mid-stomach, leaving thin, smouldering lines of pain down your sides. Sitting up, she raises herself off your cock, reaches for it, squeezes it, bends it upwards and points it at her hole. You hold your breath in anticipation, watching a drip of her wetness ooze from her slit to your glans. Ever so gradually, she lowers herself onto you. Her lips part around your head, and you feel the edges of her taut opening pressing against it. She's not hot like a human would be, but pleasantly warm. And you very much doubt you'll worry about the temperature difference once you're buried inside her.

At last, she rests enough of her weight on your cock that your head pops into her, so suddenly it's almost audible. Her walls cling to the throbbing flesh of your cockhead, massaging the dense nerves underneath, and you groan, clutching a handful of bedsheet. Vriska exhales slowly, murmuring under her breath, and with a fang hanging over her lip keeps on conjoining with you, your dick disappearing into her like the blade on a trick knife.

A bump, and you're completely immersed in her, her labia snug against your pubis. She grins a sharp grin, and you see such satisfaction in her eyes. Shakily, as if she's trying to hold back, she lifts herself from you, and the sensation of her softly ridged insides rolling off your cock makes you throw your head back into the mattress and utter an urgent keen.

"We haven't even started yet, you geek," she says. "Better not cum before I do."

You could happily let her ride you into oblivion, whether you came before her or not. But that wouldn’t be very blackrom, you guess. Rather, after her next few strokes, you rear up, grab her, throw her to the mattress and straddle her, dropping down to bite her lip and force your tongue into her mouth. She snarls, and bites back. God knows what your mouth will look like after this is done. Like you shaved with a broken bottle, most likely. You focus through the pain and slap your hips against hers, your cock miraculously finding her cunt, and you slam against her with a few desperate thrusts while she struggles under you. Against her strength you quickly tire, and she kicks you in the gut, shoves you off herself and sends you sprawling. Winded, you struggle back up, and she’s on you like a hissing wildcat, slashing at you with her nails, raking yet more stinging scratches down your arm. You slap her soundly across the face, the crack resounding across the room, and both you and her stare at each other shocked for a moment. Then she grins and leaps on you, bearing you down, and you roll and pinch and bite, sometimes getting your dick in her, sometimes not.

Opportunity presents itself when you end up behind her. You grab her arm, twisting it into a painful lock, leaning back well out of the way of her flailing free hand.

“Not so tough now, are you?” you say, shoving your cock between her thighs, reimmersing it in her semi-warm tightness, building a slow but powerful rhythm.

“Fuck you!!!!!!!!” she spits. “You fucking bastard, is that the best - ahhhhhhhh, c’mon, fuck me!”

You do your best to oblige, ramping up the power, falling across her and nipping at her neck, whapping against the sparse flesh of her arse over and over. You keep a tight grip on her wrist, but feel confident enough to reach round her with your other hand and seize one of her little tits, rolling it in your palm, trapping her nipple between your fingers and pinching ‘til she screams. It almost feels like you’ve tamed her, until she does something complicated and agonising and you end up lying on your back with your solar plexus on fire. Before you can even think about taking a breath, lean thighs engulf your head, a dripping blue twat smothers your mouth and your nose ends up buried in her sweaty crack.

“Lick,” you just about hear her say, and for emphasis she grabs your cock and balls and gives them another of those eye-watering squeezes.

Well, what can you do but send your tongue slithering between her folds. You worm it inside her, feeling her twitch around it, her juices draining into your mouth and slicking your face as she humps against you. Her moan as you slop and slurp around her lips is surprisingly loud, and not wishing to give her anything else to complain about, you redouble your efforts, a backwash of your own spittle joining her juices in rolling over your chin. She rewards you, leaning over and incidentally mashing her nooklips harder against your mouth, but also allowing her to grip your cock and roughly jerk you. You mewl into her cunt and thrust up your hips, then feel the sting of her contemptuous cackle. Well, you might be enjoying eating her out, but it's not bloody blackrom, is it?

You wait for your moment. Actually, you make it, lashing your tongue tip across her clit and sending a particular debilitating shudder careening through her body. In that moment, you grab her waist, shove her forward and slither out from beneath her, envisioning your thighs impaled by her horns if you've timed it wrong. You haven't, and she falls flat on her face, spitting and cursing, rolling over to kick at you, but you're already atop her, knees between hers, her legs splayed. With a shout from both of you you shove your cock back in her twat and fuck her for all she's worth.

"Fucking bastard!" she yells. "Did I give you permission to stop licking? You goddamn connard!"

You pound her ever harder, letting your anger at her jibes flow into your sinews, lending power to your strokes. Perspiration patters from your brow, splashing down over her face.

"Jegus," she mutters, "I thought I already knew the sweatiest guy in the world. Gross."

You grit your teeth, try to ignore her, slap yourself against her with as much ferocity as you can muster, cock pulsing in the constricting embrace of her walls, in the hopes that a good dicking will scramble her speech circuits. No such luck. She does. Not. Shut. Up.

"Bastard!!!!!!!!"

"Fuckhead!!!!!!!"

"Fils de pute!!!!!!!!"

You don't even realise your hand is on her throat for a moment, but then it is, and you're leaning your entire weight on it, fighting against those formidable trollen muscles.

"Fucking...finally!" she rasps.

You chokefuck her, listening to nothing but her laboured, gasping breaths, your hips moving on autopilot, all your attention on her face, staring into her eyes, watching the pupils in those unnatural cerulean irises contract to pinpricks, watching her face turn an equally vivid cobalt shade. Her larynx, or the alien equivalent thereof, bobs under your palm, you can feel her muscles twitching, feel the throb in (again, the alien equivalent of) her jugular, faster, faster, then weaker. You slacken off, worried you're going too far, but she wheezes in a lungful of air and seems none the worse, so you reapply pressure, above and below. Her walls clench down on your cock, blankness envelops your brain.

You release her neck at the instant of her climax, letting fresh oxygen reignite her cells so that she cums howling, fit to echo through the soundproofing foam she's installed on her walls. Her scream sounds harsh, modulated through her abused vocal cords, but by now your own white heat is rushing through you, deafening, blinding, reducing you to the obving area of flesh nestled against her flesh: stroke, stroke, stroke and done. And for a moment, pure, complete heaven.

You lay insensible with her beneath you, her body cooling in a way that'd be terrifying if she were human. You make sure she's breathing, allow yourself a sigh of relief.

"Pretty good," she eventually growls, sounding like a Franco-Alternian Tom Waits. Then she has you by the hair. She drags you wincing out of her bed, to the door, and throws you out into the hallway.

"What!?" you ask, before your trousers hit you in the face.

"Go get me a morning after pill," she demands. A wad of crumpled bills follow your clothes. Euros, not dollars. The door slams shut.

"It's three!" you holler.

The door slams open again. "Do it!!!!!!!! 'Less you want to be paying child support for the next nine sweeps."

You think that doesn't sound too bad until you convert it into the standard eighteen years.

"Alright, alright, I'm going!" The door bangs shut. You struggle into your clothes, and are halfway into your shirt when Vriska reappears.

She seizes you, wraps you in herself, kisses you. No teeth, lots of tongue, passionate, loving, even.

"Pretty good, by the way," she says, when she's done. "Lets go again sometime."

You want to say something in return. Noting occurs.

"Get that pill!" she says, and the door's shut again.

At least your phone has some charge. You Trolltavista an all night pharmacy reasonably close by, and prepare to set out. Can humans even get Alternians pregnant? You don't know. But you might be prepared to risk it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to Anonymous for this one. You can catch me at:
> 
> twitter.com/GeistyGeist  
> geistygeist.tumblr.com (things fall apart, the centre cannot hold)


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